


A Lesson on Privacy

by Dantherus



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Biting, Bittersweet, Cheating, Choking, Crying, Crying During Sex, Dirty Talk, Eldritch Voyeurism, Emotional Manipulation, Established Relationship, Evil Bastard Men having feelings, Fluff, Hate Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Kissing, M/M, Make up sex, Making Love, Psychological Torture, Rimming, Sexy Crying, Tattoos, Violence, Voyeurism, blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:33:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29517453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dantherus/pseuds/Dantherus
Summary: Peter and Elias have the sort of relationship in which boundaries are something that they can't help but push. However, when Elias buys Peter a dog collar with a silver eye engraved on it, Peter's immediate refusal has the worst of Elias' sore pride making an appearance.Peter shouldn't be bothered by all the cheating, but just this time, he wants to teach Elias a lesson about privacy.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard | Jonah Magnus/Peter Lukas
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	A Lesson on Privacy

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters, they belong to Rusty Quill's The Magnus Archives. I only borrowed them to commit horny crimes (again).
> 
> WARNING: Please, heed the tags! This is a nsfw 18+ piece of slash fiction. If you’re either: 1. a minor; 2. squicked by any of this, back out, block me, whatever. Thanks!

When Peter gets his first tattoo — a soaring sparrow on his inner arm — he doesn’t expect Elias to become obsessed with it so quickly, but that's exactly what happens.

Peter doesn’t complain. For someone who is by default loath to be under the spotlight, he actually enjoys this brand of attention, even if it might come at inconvenient times. 

Peter should have expected it, getting tangled with a voyeur, but Elias has a thing for almost getting caught — which is how Peter often finds himself backed up against a wall when he visits the institute and, well… He’d be lying if he said he doesn’t get a kick out of it, too.

Sometimes, Elias will invite a third person into their bedroom. Peter isn’t keen on company, but he enjoys the overwhelming loneliness that pours from their  _ guests  _ once they realise they’re being used. Elias is very particular about what said guests can or can’t do, and once they’re done, he is quick to toss them out. 

They’ve done it many times, but in none of them did Elias allow the third party to touch Peter. In none, were they allowed into the bed. How much of it out of respect for Peter’s aversion to people, or simply due to sheer possessiveness, Peter can’t tell. 

All he knows is that Elias loves getting his way, and that he will sometimes push too far.

“God, Peter, this is  _ tasteless _ ,” Elias chides, tapping lightly at Peter’s bicep, where a busty pin-up girl now sits fanning herself. 

“What,” Peter mocks in fake hurt, “you don’t like Elisa?”

“I take it that’s supposed to flatter me, giving my name to that gross caricature of a woman?”

Peter shrugs. “I’m sorry it’s not to your liking. Haven’t seen you in lace for a long time now. Had to give the lad my best shot.”

“That wouldn't be so if  _ someone  _ hadn't forgotten the anniversary of my third vessel-change.”

Peter throws his hands up in defeat. This battle had been lost a long time ago. He goes to the kitchen to steal some of Elias’ beer, which he knows Elias stocks just for him — he also knows that Elias will never admit to that. 

Static buzzes in the air and Elias barges in after him. 

“Oh, don’t you dare invisible your way out of this like last time!”

Peter sighs, takes a swig of the beer. 

“Peter.” Elias has both hands bisecting his face. “You are married to a God. A soon to be one, anyway. A little more appreciation would be nice.”

Peter has an idea where this is going. “What do you want this time?”

Peter’s evident lack of interest and extreme exhaustion go unnoticed. Or rather, ignored. Elias claps and bounces on his feet. 

“Glad you asked! I got you something- It’s the prettiest thing. It’s gonna work wonders.”

Peter follows Elias into the living room and takes a spot on the comfortable couch. Elias fumbles with something in the low cabinet. Soon, a small box is produced and handed to Peter, who gives it a puzzled look. 

Elias is grinning from ear to ear. Peter takes the box and opens it. 

There’s a glint of silver among black silk, and when Peter retrieves it, a long strip of fine leather trails after his fingers. Attached to it, a delicate triangle is carved with an open eye. On the inner part, Peter’s name is woven in elegant cursive. 

Peter’s mood sours instantly. 

“You got me a dog collar,” he grits out. “Not only that, but a tracker, too.”

“So…?! Do you like it? I reckon it will be better for when I want to  _ see _ . Better than having to keep portraits around. It was getting kind of old, and digital pictures are just...” Elias shudders. “Also, I’d love to see you in nothing but this. Picked the colour just for you.”

Peter ignores the flirt and calmly returns the item to the box. 

“No.”

He doesn’t need to look to know that Elias isn’t happy. They’ve been together long enough now that Peter can almost taste it, his husband’s outrage at being contradicted. Not that Peter cares, anyway. The worst that could happen is Elias demanding another divorce — again. He sighs, thinking fondly of his Tundra. Perhaps it’s time to go on a trip. A very long one. 

“Peter.”

“No.”

Peter looks up. Elias is- God, is he pouting? His jaw is clenched and his lips are pursed in a way that definitely looks like he is pouting. 

Peter gives the beer a disgruntled look. Maybe it was stronger than he’d thought. It was always odd, to say the least, how much of Jonah’s micro-expressions managed to seep through their new vessels. Same lines, different faces. They had a way of reworking bones and muscles into what they desired, and in moments like this, when Jonah’s emotions were so close to the surface, they stood out. 

“ _ Why _ .” 

Peter shrugs. “I’m not your pet, Elias, in spite of you believing otherwise.”

Elias makes a sound as if Peter has just offended his ancestors. “How ungrateful can a man be, I’ve literally just sucked you off!”

“And it was very nice, thank you.” Peter retrieves the beer, takes a long swig. 

Elias laughs, but there’s no mirth in it. “It is only a collar,  _ Lukas.” _

Oh, there it is, the family name. Peter finishes his drink and gets up to take the empty bottle to the kitchen. Elias watches him like a hawk. 

Peter discards the item and turns to leave. He actually does have important business in the Tundra, and this situation here isn’t looking too good. He doesn’t see the point in trying to explain to Elias why he will not go around with a symbol of the Eye hanging around his neck. It’s a perversion of his ways as a servant of the Lonely, not to mention an invasion of his privacy.

“Sorry, can’t help you. I really need to go now.”

Elias’ eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. He directs Peter an ironic little smile. 

“Oh, then... Perhaps I should find someone who can.”

That gives Peter pause. Their relationship isn’t exactly exclusive — their marriage more of a symbol of partnership than of emotional commitment, if their history of divorces is any indicator. But one doesn’t spend decades of their lives with someone like Jonah Magnus and walks away unscathed. The idea of someone else having him while Peter isn’t there is one that he actively avoids, because it can (and will) darken his mood — and Elias is very much aware of that. 

“Whatever works best for you, dearest. Now.” 

Peter waves, and vanishes.

*

It’s a while before they contact each other again. 

It’s night, and Peter is in the middle of dealing with a potential  _ client _ when his phone (the one that Elias got him, in spite of his rejecting it vehemently) buzzes with an incoming message. 

Peter excuses himself to get it, only to have the breath knocked out of him when he opens the message and sees a picture of a naked torso with long, lean legs wrapped around the waist. 

Peter has had those same legs tangled with his own enough times to recognise them anywhere. 

He types back a quick reply with shaky fingers. It’s a miracle that the phone screen doesn’t crack under the weight of his tight grip. 

_ What do you think you’re doing?  _

The reply comes nearly ten minutes later. In the meantime, Peter’s client has gotten fed up and left. Peter curses, but his attention is elsewhere. When the phone buzzes, he nearly drops it with how fast he clicks the pop up. It’s another picture, closer this time, focused on a dash of silver and leather fastened around the stranger’s neck. 

_ Isn’t it just beautiful?  _ The caption says.

This time, the screen does crack. Peter doesn’t reply, just shoves the phone into his pocket and storms away, foaming at the mouth. He needs a drink, something to keep him from doing something stupid that he will regret later. 

This is another of Elias’ games. Peter has been through them countless times, and knows very well how they work. 

The following weeks, there is a steady influx of similar pictures of different torsos, all of them very well captioned to let Peter know exactly what they had been doing to his husband. Peter’s mood is so destructive that even his crew has a hard time. The Tundra was never designed to be a comfortable retreat from society, but the biting chill and the suffocating silence that settle upon the ship can be felt in every cramped compartment. More than once, the crew has to talk one of their own from crossing over the edge.

Peter reckons he could just toss the bloody thing into the ocean and be done with all of this, but he can’t bring himself to. He has never been one to explode in a mess of emotions, but to rather let them simmer and grow, darker in shape and intent.

So he waits, drinks, and broods — but he also thinks, because he’s had an idea that he believes will serve just Elias right. 

*

Back in London, Elias prepares to go out, wondering whether he should look for someone similar to Peter this time, just to spite him. 

He knows that Peter has been getting the messages, and the lack of any replies is getting on his nerves. It’s no fun poking at a sleeping bear if it will keep on sleeping. 

Besides, sex has become rather dull lately, and if he’s being any honest, he rather misses Peter. 

_ Why couldn’t he just wear the bloody collar?!  _

The tie is too tight, but Elias glances at himself in the mirror and appreciates the handsome, annoyed man that stares back. Why can’t Peter understand that one does not simply serve the Eye and resists the urge to  _ watch _ ?

There aren’t many  _ windows  _ on the Tundra, Peter had made sure of that. So yes — accepting the collar would mean that Elias would be able to track Peter down wherever he went, but...

“Would that be so bad?”

The night air is chilly when he steps outside and heads towards the pub area. Checking his phone reveals no new messages, but no surprise there. Peter isn’t much for texting, and sexting least of all. 

When Elias sends Peter another photo, this time of a buff man sprawled on his bed while Elias pounds into him, there’s still only silence. 

Elias finishes off for the sake of it, and drops the phone on the bedside table in favour of going to take a shower. He doesn’t tell the man to leave, but his mood is so gloomy that anybody with half a brain would be able to pick up on the evident rejection.

Elias comes out of the shower feeling somewhat refreshed. His one-night stand is gone, collar left behind on the table, near the phone. 

For a brief moment, Elias considers calling Peter, but the idea quickly proves unnecessary when the screen lights up with an incoming call. 

_ Peter _ . 

Elias grins and lunges for the item, then sprawls on his back as he takes the call. 

“Peter… What a delightful surprise. I had hoped you’d call, with my latest choice of a partner. See, he has a bit of your chest hair.” Elias chuckles, savouring this. “So! Finally feeling inspired to take up on my offer?”

Peter ignores the question. Instead, he tells Elias to watch. Something in the way he does it gives Elias pause. 

Hesitantly, Elias closes his eyes and allows his mind to wander and reach out to Peter. His mind hops from eye to eye as it catches glimpses of its surroundings. Peter is far away, in a port somewhere.

It is near sundown, and though he can’t physically feel it, Elias knows that it’s sweltering; can tell from the dampness on people’s skin and the way they dress. The sky is heavy with clouds and it’s humid, so different from the nice chill of Elias’ flat. He can’t hear them, but he knows that it would require the Eye’s blessing to understand what these people are saying. 

He finally locates Peter at an inn facing the last pier. The room Peter is renting is cramped up, roof low and rotten wooden walls covered by mouldy carpets; the only sources of light are a couple oil lamps that make the place look like an abandoned mausoleum. There’s a small table near a flimsy cot, and upon it Peter’s clothes are neatly folded. Elias never understood the appeal of misery, but he reckons Peter must think it appropriate.

There isn’t a single portrait anywhere, nothing that might resemble an eye, and yet Elias is able to see it all, at an angle that seems as if he is standing at the centre of the room. 

Peter is close, very close, but Elias can’t spot him. 

The  _ window _ shifts and Elias gasps as he makes another sweep of the room. Wherever he is looking through, the surface is uneven, wavering. 

Elias curses through the phone, annoyed. “What the hell is this?”

Next, his  _ sight  _ lands upon a tall, oval object covered by a long, yellowish sheet. There is a chair placed right before it. 

Elias’ window approaches the piece of furniture, and  _ sits down _ . Things finally click.

“Peter…” he doesn’t get the chance to finish the question. Peter’s arm stretches out and removes the sheet, revealing an old mirror. 

Peter is sat facing it, beard having grown longer because of his time at sea, but complexion still morbidly pale. He has dark circles under his eyes, but they look smug, holding Elias’ gaze through the reflection. Peter is naked from the waist up, tattoos standing out on his fair skin. 

Elias remembers each one of them — but not the new one on Peter’s strong chest. 

It’s a large and gruesome thing, covering up most of Peter’s pectorals in powerful strokes of black ink. Shrouded by mist, a pair of unblinking eyes peers through the veil, forever watching. 

“When did you get this?” Elias is breathless.

“Does it matter?”

Elias scoffs. “You’ve been ignoring my messages, I didn’t think you’d be getting a damn eyes tattoo when you put up such a fuss over a simple collar. Well. I appreciate it all the same, overreaction regardless.”

“Oh, this isn’t for you, love.”

“What do you m-”

The call is cut off. 

Elias growls and discards the phone — no need for it now that he can actually see Peter. And he does, licking his lips. 

Peter is up to something, that much is evident. Elias grips the sheets when said something turns out to be Peter starts touching himself. 

He runs his hands up those sturdy thighs and over his lower belly, eliciting a shiver and a groan. The fabric of his trousers is thin, so Elias has full view of Peter’s cock, hardening fast.

Well, if this isn’t for him, then why does it feel like a private show? 

Elias realises with no lack of satisfaction that the way Peter is touching himself is similar to how Elias does it — how he grips his cock through the fabric and works it nice and slow, until a damp spot forms at the front. Elias' mouth waters and he curses softly. 

He knows that Peter will be hot under his touch, but it’s the way that Peter’s hands travel up his chest to play with his tits that finally has Elias groaning and shoving a hand between his legs. 

He’s always loved sucking on Peter’s chest until he was on the verge of agony, then fucking him fast with both hands gripping his tits. This is bringing back fond memories. 

Elias has shagged more people in the past few weeks than he had in years, and still he feels pent up enough that the mere sight of Peter enjoying himself has Elias nearing an orgasm.

Elias can almost taste it, so close — but then, Peter stops. Elias lets out an annoyed grunt, but he observes with curiosity as Peter turns around and stands. 

There’s a moment of confusion in which Elias stills, daring not to move, because a terrible thought has just crossed him. This can’t be happening. 

Someone comes into the room. Elias can’t see their face, but it’s a male, with a cloth tied around his eyes. Peter guides the man to the chair and makes him kneel in front of it, in full view of the mirror.

Elias shakes with fury upon realising that Peter is going the extra mile to make sure that Elias will be able to see  _ everything _ . 

Only when he deems it perfect, does Peter return to the chair. He doesn’t sit down at first. Instead, he caresses the man’s short hair and stops with a hand on the back of his head, coaxing him to mouth at his crotch. The stranger does so and Peter sighs, head thrown back in pleasure. 

Elias snaps and grips around for the phone, hands too shaky to get the number right first try. Blood rushes in his ears. 

He tries calling Peter, but the bastard won’t pick up. Elias is frantic, because every second spent trying to come through the phone is one wasted not watching. After the fifth failed attempt, he gives up with a snarl and tosses the phone away, hopping back into the  _ window _ . As much as he hates what he sees, he can’t bring himself to look away. 

Peter’s trousers pool around his ankles, and he’s sitting with his legs spread open, each one looking like a column where they brace on either side of the man. Peter’s hand is resting on the stranger’s head as it bobs up and down his cock. 

Elias bites his tongue, tasting his own poison and finding it bitter. This is worse. This is way more cruel than anything he’s ever done. He doesn’t deserve this.

“Stop,” he warns in a low growl, knowing very well that Peter can’t hear him. He might as well burst a vessel like this, but he can’t get rid of the boiling rage making his limbs convulse. 

The man continues to suck Peter off, but Peter shifts, placing both hands on the back of the man’s neck and holding him in place. The stranger jolts, grips Peter’s thighs — leaving scratch marks on the pale skin, the same way Elias loves to. The thought makes Elias’ stomach turn, but he lets out a dry, humourless laugh. 

Elias had been there before; it had surprised him at first, but he had come to appreciate the feeling of those large hands locking behind his head and trapping it, holding him so Peter could fuck his throat. 

This guy, of course, gags and pulls away. 

Elias feels vindicated for a moment, until Peter lets the man go and mouths a question. Elias guesses he asks if the man is alright. Peter is  _ gentle _ , and Elias can’t help the hurt whimper that escapes his lips, nor the heavy weight that settles in his chest.

Before he knows it, Elias is reaching for the man. It’s useless, he can’t compel someone whose eyes he can’t see. 

It’s pure agony, feels as if he is punching a brick wall that will not budge, no matter what he does. He won’t give up, though. He’ll keep trying, because now the man is climbing onto Peter’s lap, and Elias knows what comes next. 

The stranger’s body is nice — sinewy and clean, yielding easily under Peter’s hands. They look so large, wrapping around that thin waist as the man sinks down on Peter’s cock. 

Elias thrashes on the bed, pushing the heels of his palms onto his eyes and roaring  _ come on!  _

The man is rocking steadily, and Elias can only see half his face, mouth open in pleasure. The man leans down, and Elias wants to be sick. 

The kiss is brief, but enough to make Elias yell. Nobody had ever dared touch Peter in his presence, much less kiss him, and just like that, this- this manwhore… Elias feels violated. He can’t do anything about it.

Peter must say something incredibly funny then, because the man laughs. Throws his head back and cackles. They exchange a few words, and there’s a sly smile playing on those lips by the end of it. The man pokes at Peter’s chest with a long finger and Peter takes his wrist. 

The man is undeterred, and lowers his face enough that Elias can read his lips. 

_ Jealous _ . 

Elias sees red. 

The man laughs openly again, but Elias has never been this focused before, powered by sheer madness. He might die trying to breach through the sacred walls of that man’s mind, but he will not stop.

The cloth covering the man’s face is soaked in sweat; the man rubs at it, motioning to remove it. Peter stops him. 

_ Just a little, it’s hot _ , the lips read. The fact that Peter is trying to  _ protect _ this person drives Elias further into seething rage. 

Perhaps luck is on Elias’ side, because the man lifts the fabric just an inch. Enough to air it out, but also to allow a minute glimpse at the eyes beneath. Elias howls, victorious, and sinks his claws into the man’s mind like a snake bite. 

The man thrashes and falls backwards with a violent tug, as if a rope has locked taut around his neck and yanked him back — but it’s his own hands wrapped around it, part clawing, part squeezing, compelled to cut out all airflow. 

The order is simple: stop breathing. 

This isn’t the way Elias does things. He isn’t one for such unrefined, petty vengeance, but would rather take his time — come up with something that would be like a needle scraping under someone’s nail until they can't take it anymore. 

Not this time, though. This time, he wants to leave nothing behind. 

Peter tries to help, but he must know that it’s useless, because he soon gives up and merely stands there, while the gruesome scene unravels before his eyes. 

If anything, Peter’s initial mercy makes Elias more cruel, for he doesn’t stop until the man lies motionless on the cold stone floor, blood pouring from deep open gashes scraped deep into his neck. 

Elias shivers violently once it’s done, breath coming out ragged as if he had been the one choking to death. 

Peter looks at the dead man, then into the mirror. Elias stares back at him through the eyes on his chest, but he can’t read Peter’s expression. His own vision is swimming and he feels bile pooling at the back of his tongue. 

Elias wants to say something, but his own throat feels tight. Not that it would matter, Peter wouldn’t be able to hear him this far.

Peter grabs a shirt and pulls it over himself, concealing the eye. Just like that, the vision is gone.

Elias snaps back into reality. The bedroom is dark and cold, streetlights casting long shadows on the walls and floor. Elias has never been afraid of the dark, or even bothered by the things that lurk in it, but right now, he is utterly  _ alone _ .

His eyes feel hot. When he raises a hand to touch them, his fingertips come back wet. 

  
  


*

  
  


Elias goes to work the next day in a foul enough mood that no one dares come into his office. He doesn’t hear from Peter in the following weeks, but he’s sure to procure the divorce papers for when he finally does. 

Frankly… Making Elias lose his composure to the point of killing someone with his bare hands. Who does Peter Lukas think he is? Worse, who does he think he is to invite some lowly creature into a bed that’s supposed to be theirs only? Peter's actions are unforgiving, a break of trust. Preposterous. The cheating bastard. 

Elias doesn’t realise that he’s taken to muttering angrily under his breath, promises of bloody murder and revenge. 

_ Peter doesn’t even like people! _ , a voice in his mind supplies. It only goes to show that Peter did that to spite him, to hurt Elias’ pride. 

It works, god damn him. But Elias will die before he lets Peter know that he’s taken to nursing a bottle of wine before bed since then. 

Elias has even weathered through one of this current vessel’s strange weed cravings, and he did not call Peter. He had been hungry and horny and  _ lonely _ all afternoon, taking hit after hit off a blunt and sprawled on his bed, staring into the ceiling, feeling too hollow to even masturbate. 

His sulking shouldn’t get in the way of his work, but eventually the sleepless nights do catch up with him. He curses himself for staying up late, trying to spot Peter with his shirt off so he can take a peek, but it never happens. 

All it earns him are constant headaches and a proclivity to being way more cruel to people. He snaps easily and makes a girl cry for having stapled a couple files wrong and causing Elias to prickle his finger; two days later, he nearly fires an entire department on the spot, under cursing and yelling, even if he knows he can’t exactly dismiss people like that. They belong to the Eye.

It takes Tim’s calling him out —  _ what the hell is wrong with you  _ and  _ have you seen yourself lately  _ — for Elias to pause and take a look in the mirror. He freezes in utter shock, because he looks awful: tie askew, greasy hair standing up in places, sunken eyes and chapped lips terribly pale. When had he become like this?

He decides to do something about it and takes a few days off, retires to a spa in the countryside where no news of Peter or anything remotely related to the Lukas family can reach him. He is a hardworking, gorgeous man, and he deserves a rest. 

It does wonders to his skin, but not so much to his spirits. Elias is still mad when he returns home, and becomes madder still when he steps into his flat to see a worn out leather suitcase near the door, empty bottles of beer lining his kitchen counter, and Peter sitting on his couch, staring out the window. 

Elias’ stomach twists into a queasy knot and his blood boils, but he will not ruin the work of hundreds of pounds spent in quartz exfoliation and avocado moisturising creams that went into his face. He will breathe and send Peter out. 

Good. This is good, actually. He has been meaning to get in contact and have Peter sign the divorce papers, which are in his bedroom-  _ No _ . They’re on the coffee table, right in front of Peter. 

Peter turns around. “Elias.”

Elias drops his keys into a tiny vine basket that he keeps near the door, undaunted. “Surprised to see you here. Thought you'd be enjoying warmer climates.” 

Elias removes his coat and hangs it on the hallway pegs, takes off his shoes and arranges them in the corner. He needs a bath, before he can throw another jab. 

Peter only hums and turns away. Whatever he’s thinking, Elias isn’t interested. 

Elias takes a long shower, to get rid of all the grime and exhaustion of the trip back home, and half hopes that Peter will have read the room and left. When he exits, tough, clad in fluffy dark green robes, with a towel wrapped around his hair, Peter is still there. 

Elias sighs, distressed, but remains civil. “I see you’ve found the divorce papers.” 

Peter only grunts, and Elias rolls his eyes. He goes to the kitchen, sure that he had left a half-full bottle of wine in the fridge. 

“Do take the time to sign them, if you haven’t already. The sooner the better though, I've already contacted my lawyer and we're keen to proceed.”

His voice comes out steady, which is great. He might be angry, but at least he’s in control. 

“Is that it, then?”

Elias pours himself some wine. 

“Is that what.” 

There should also be a bag of chips somewhere in the cabinet. 

While Elias searches, Peter comes in. 

Elias only spares him a cursory glance as he stands in the archway, holding the divorce papers in one hand and a beer in the other. 

“This is getting old even for you.”

Elias pauses. “What are you saying?”

“This!” Peter waves the papers in front of Elias’ face. Elias blinks. “You’re always pulling the divorce card whenever things don’t go your way, but not a decade goes by and you’re trying to find me again! As if I’m some kind of toy that you can throw away whenever you don’t feel like playing anymore.”

Elias slams the cabinet shut and turns around sharply. 

“Oh, those are some bold words for someone who doesn’t even bother- All you care about is moping in your silly little ship, and when it’s convenient for you, using the resources of  _ my  _ institute, or fucking me when you’re bored!” 

Calm. He needs to stay calm. They’ve had fights before, worse ones than this. But something feels off, charged. There’s a weight to Peter’s gaze that had never been there before, and it rattles something deep within. 

Peter lets out a brittle laugh, but it’s his next words that have Elias’ heart sinking. 

“God-,” Peter laughs, “you’re the most fucking selfish bastard I’ve ever met... I’ve been running around doing whatever whimsical shit you ask me to for the past hundred years!”

Elias’ hands are shaking so violently that he nearly drops the wine glass. 

“ _ I’m _ selfish-” he cuts in, “you fucking cheated on me! You brought some prostitute into our bed and you made me  _ watch _ !”

Peter tosses the papers on the counter and chucks the bottle into the bin, loud crash making Elias flinch. Peter is breathing hard.

“And you didn’t?! Or did you forget the seventeen times you fucked some god damn stranger just to spite me? I didn’t. I have them all here, every single photo, every single message telling me what they did to you and how much you liked it!”

Elias places the glass in the sink before he can break it. The accusation is true, but he’s undeterred.

“You know damn well you brought this upon yourself. All I did was ask you a very simple thing, and you- ” His lips twist into an ugly scowl. “God, I wanted to kill you, then. You fucking humiliated me!”

Peter gives a dry laugh. “That makes two of us, because I wanted nothing more than to toss over the edge of the Tundra and watch you drown. I still can’t look at your face without wanting to kick your teeth in.”

Elias steps up to him. “Do it. Do it  _ now _ .” 

Elias’ jaw is set, jutting out. He feels mad daring Peter to strike him, especially when he's clearly furious. Elias knows that the man can deal some significant damage, but he does it anyway, just because he can. And because he hopes that Peter will.

Elias doesn’t know when this urge to elicit a reaction — any reaction — from Peter had started, but he’s been feeding it worse and worse things for a long time now. 

The worst that Peter could do is ignore him — which he does.

“No. It’s not worth it. I’m leaving. I just came to return your phone, and then I saw this.” Peter pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t even know why I bothered waiting for you, when I knew this would be the outcome — but I sat on that couch for two days, thinking- Thinking that maybe you’d apologise and we could move on from this whole damn divorce thing.” He grunts, bitter. “Guess I just wasted my time. Well then.” 

Peter moves for the door, but Elias shoves him hard with both hands to his chest. 

“What- You fucking arsehole, don’t you dare turn your back on me!”

“Elias!” 

“You think you can come into my house, say whatever the hell you want and then just leave? What are you, a fucking coward?!”

Peter slaps him across the face, and it’s dull before it’s painful, but soon Elias’ eyes are welling up. 

“Just shut up, Elias. If you have any respect for  _ us _ , just- shut it.” Peter sighs heavily. “Maybe it’s my own fault for not standing up to you the first time you pulled this crap on me, but I’m not playing this game anymore. Get outta my way.”

Elias strikes him back. The slap hurts more on him than it does on Peter, but Peter just rubs at the tender spot.

“This is what you wanted, right?” Elias hisses. “Wanted me to lose it, to act like I'm fucking mad, and for what? To act like you’re the bigger guy? To prove that you can?”

Elias may not see the irony of his words, but Peter does.

“So what if I wanted to see you hurt! You wanted the same! You wanted to punish me, and for what? Saying no to you? Wanting to keep my dignity? God, this,” Peter gestures between them, exhausted, and Elias knows that he’s losing him. Can see it in his eyes that he has come to a decision. “This will get us nowhere.”

Elias blocks his way when Peter tries to leave again. They struggle, and before long, they are full on fighting, trying to make the other budge through blood, nail and teeth. Elias yells in agony when Peter shoves him hard and he hits the table with a hip, but Peter howls when Elias hits him with an empty beer bottle. 

The bottom edge of the glass makes a sickly thud against Peter’s temple and Elias bares his teeth, feral. The spot will bruise easily, and the thought of leaving his mark on Peter’s skin somehow soothes him. He has no time to revel in it, though, because next thing he knows, Peter is landing a punch to his diaphragm that has him wheezing and doubling over, falling to his knees. 

Peter must deem the fight done, because he stands up straight and recomposes himself, then moves towards the door. 

Elias lunges forward, latches onto his trouser leg and doesn’t let go. 

“We’re not done! You haven’t killed me yet!”

“Yes, we are! Let go!” 

Peter yanks, but Elias holds on tight. He will walk on his knees and fall on his chest before he even thinks of giving up. 

He must look ridiculous with his mess of a hair and undone robe, but he doesn’t care. Right now, he feels more animal than person, and he is hurt.

“I’m not gonna kill you, and I’m not fighting you anymore. Let me go, and please don't look for me anymore.” Peter’s tone is diplomatic, and Elias hates him for it. Hates him for his cold resolve. 

“No, I’m not done with you! I still- I still have things lodged in my throat and you're gonna hear every single one of them!” 

Elias’ eyes are wild, filled with angry tears. He scrambles up, invades Peter’s space. There's so much he wants to argue, to say, but the only thing that comes out is hurt. 

“I’m so fucking-  _ mad _ ! How could you- how could you do that to me… I wanna-”

Elias curls both hands around Peter’s neck, nails viciously digging into the skin. Elias knows that it won’t be enough to kill Peter, the angle is all wrong. But Peter takes hold of his wrists, steely eyes boring deep into Elias’ own. 

“I’m going to fucking kill you for that, for everything!” Elias promises, but his voice falters. He knows that Peter doesn’t believe him, can see it in the way he’s looking at him. 

Elias hates it, feeling so small and pitiful in front of Peter — so he shifts and squeezes Peter’s windpipe. 

Elias has always hated getting his hands dirty; he prefers  _ cleaner  _ methods, because feeling the other person’s blood pumping hot and desperate under his palms is just… Too personal. Too intimate.

Peter falls back against a wall, and Elias stumbles along, hands locked around his neck and finally making good on their promise. 

Peter grunts, gags, eyes becoming bloodshot and face growing red. Even his grip is now looser on Elias' wrists and he slowly sags forward. Just a little more, just a few more seconds and it will be done. Elias will have avenged himself and regained his pride.

Elias sobs. He can’t do this. 

Peter heaves and coughs when the hands let go. 

Elias’ entire body is shaking like a leaf and he feels frail, small, and completely hopeless. He can’t even do this one thing, can’t even defend himself against this man. Can’t even hurt him. 

Elias curses and claws at Peter’s chest, breathing hard and struggling not to cry. He can’t take this anymore, this hurt that threatens to tear through his eyes and heart. 

A large hand locks around the fine hairs on Elias’ nape, and the grip makes him howl in pain. He braces himself for the impact of an angry fist to his jaw, but what finds him instead are Peter’s lips, hungry against his own. 

The kiss is more bite and violence than affection, but Elias sobs and melts into it, licks into Peter’s mouth and cries out when Peter grabs his arse, pulling Elias flush against himself. It’s an understatement to say that Elias missed him, and a lie to say that he isn’t weak to this man’s touch. 

Elias moans and pulls back to whisper a breathy curse when Peter’s fingertip brushes against his hole. He gets hard fast, cock pressing into Peter’s abdomen, and it hurts, because Elias is naked but for the fluffy robe, while Peter is still wearing those rough travel clothes. 

Peter scoops him up and Elias yelps in surprise. “What are you doing?!”

“Bedroom.”

A moment later, Peter drops Elias onto the bed. Elias scrambles up, robe hanging around his naked shoulders and only loosely tied over his middle. 

Peter pauses to take in the sight of him, and Elias somehow has it in himself to blush. He’s never felt this exposed, this raw before. It’s as if he’s showing Peter a part of himself that he hadn’t agreed to, so he frowns and pulls the robe around himself. 

“Stop staring.”

“Can’t do that, not when you look like this.”

Elias scoffs. “What, like a mess?”

“Yes.”

Elias throws a pillow at him, and Peter catches it mid-air. He gestures for Elias to lift his hips so he can place the item under his lower back, but Elias refuses. 

“I haven’t forgiven you. I  _ won’t  _ forgive you, Peter! Whatever you think you’re doing-”

Peter makes a show of nodding.

“Oh, so this is proper goodbye, then? You couldn’t kill me earlier, you couldn’t let me go... Should I make things easier for you? Because it really seems like you're having trouble deciding whether you want me or not.” 

Elias doesn’t like the bitterness in Peter’s tone. 

“I haven’t forgiven you either, Elias. I’m still so damn mad at you, so mad at myself at this point that I can’t just turn around and walk out- because when I look at you and see the mess you’ve become because of me, God-” Peter closes his eyes and smiles, letting out a feral grunt. “When I realise how  _ lonely  _ you’ve been, I just wanna sink my teeth into your neck and never let go. And I think- I know that you wouldn't fight it if I did.” 

Elias is scared — not of Peter’s twisted desire. They’re brothers in that sin. No, he’s scared because, for the first time, he knows that someone out there has all the means to make him a wreck, to rampage through the halls of his mind and leave only a bloody mess behind. 

He’s scared because he is vulnerable.

“You’re insane.”

“Yeah, maybe I am. But that makes two of us.”

Peter takes off his travel clothes. The chest tattoo is covered by a new design. Elias flinches at the sight of it, and quickly looks away. 

When Peter slides both hands down his thighs and elicits a shiver from him, Elias mutters “I hate that thing,” And then, quieter, “Hate you.”

Peter’s hands hesitate on his inner thighs, but when he nudges them to the sides, Elias bites his lip and parts them easily. 

“I hate you too,” Peter says, but it's soft. “You’re egocentric and selfish and cruel,” Peter gets on his knees at the edge of the bed. He braces Elias’ hips and pulls him down. Elias yelps at the sudden movement, but then Peter is placing both his legs over his shoulders. “Every time you sent me a new photo of your escapades, I wanted to turn ship, find those men and drown every single one of them.” 

His beard tickles Elias’ legs. Peter continues talking in-between kisses, sucking love bites into Elias’ thighs and sinking his teeth into their tender flesh. Elias bites his wrist to keep from making a sound, because it feels too good, but it also hurts more than a stab wound. 

“I knew that killing them would do nothing because I was mad at you. I wanted to hurt  _ you  _ when I took that guy in. But you already know that.” Peter chuckles darkly. “Oh, but did you know that I ate him out just like I do you? And when he came on my tongue and pulled my hair, fuck… Even you would have to admit that he was  _ very _ cute.”

Elias sobs, and Peter licks a wet stripe up his leaking cock. 

“I prepped him, too. Took a while, but you know how these things are. I kept thinking of the first time we fucked and how tight you were, how you could barely take me. Not when he sat on me, though. In that moment, you were the farthest thing on my mind. He squeezed me so good I saw stars.”

Peter takes him into his mouth. It’s hot and wet and perfect, makes Elias’ hip buck up and his balls tighten — but he can’t stand this. He doesn’t wanna hear anymore. He bites his wrist harder, drawing blood. 

Peter pulls off with a wet pop, then wraps a hand around him.

“I wanted to come inside him, knock him full of my come then eat it out of him, just to see him squirm. God, it made me so hard to think that you’d be watching. I know you get all weak when I put my tongue in your arse. I thought it would be a nice twist. He smelled really good, you know? And his skin was very, very soft.”

Elias looks down. Peter is pumping his cock and while Elias watches, he presses a tongue neatly against his hole, making him gasp a surprised "oh" and want to grind down on it. It’s been so long, Elias is so turned on that it hurts. But he needs Peter to stop. He almost begs. 

“Did you kiss him?” He demands, instead.

Peter sucks at his hole and rubs at that tender bundle of nerves right below the head of his cock with a thumb, and Elias finally shudders and lets out a sob of pleasure. His head falls back into the mattress, and it’s all he can do not to come — look away. Peter only lets go of him when Elias is dripping wet and essentially riding his tongue, every muscle trembling with the high of it. 

Elias is mortified, angry at his own body for responding so eagerly to this man’s touch, but he cannot help it. He wants this- wants  _ him  _ so much. 

The tears come unprompted, drowning out everything else. 

It's cold when Peter moves away. There’s the noise of the bedside table drawer opening and closing, something being uncapped, and then two gel-coated fingers pressing against Elias' hole. 

They have done this so many times that Elias knows better than to clench. The fingers slide in easily, and the whispered praise goes straight to Elias’ throbbing cock. 

He curses softly and crosses an arm over his face, concealing his eyes. Peter fingers his lazily, only dragging his digits over Elias’ sweet spot enough to make his cock jolt, but not to make him come. 

Elias takes it all, because it hurts so good that he feels drunk on it. But Peter still hasn’t given him an answer, and Elias presses him for it once more.

“Do I need to tell you? You saw it then, didn’t you?”

Elias can’t contain the sobs, then. They rattle his chest in earnest, so he hides his nose into the crook of his arm, bites the tender flesh or his forearm until it bruises. Anger makes him want to lash out, but this alien pain coiling around his heart paralyses him, leaves him sore and open, like an exposed nerve. 

Peter pulls his fingers out and lines up his cock, sinks into him without warning, but he’s prepared Elias so carefully that the only thing Elias feels is his lower belly getting hot with the urge to come. 

Peter’s hands are calloused but gentle when they hold Elias’ legs by the back of his knees. Peter ruts into him as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. Elias shoots a hand between his legs to grip the base of his cock when Peter shifts and starts hitting his prostate dead on. 

There’s no way he won’t come like this, but he doesn’t want to. Not like this — not when it feels like there’s an ocean between them. Maybe he says that out loud, but he’ll never forgive himself if he did.

“Elias. Look at me.”

Elias only shakes his head. He can’t look at Peter’s face, he doesn’t want him to see how wrecked he is. He doesn’t want to see that wretched tattoo, screw it if the eyes can’t see him anymore. 

The mattress dips under their combined weight when Peter changes position. He climbs on top of Elias, and his body is warm, heavy, knocking the breath out of him while at the same time trapping him under. 

Elias is very aware of every inch of their skin that is touching, but still, he refuses to look. 

“ _ Please _ .”

There’s something about that request that has Elias sucking in a breath. He’s never been a believer, but that single word sounds like a prayer. 

He peeks out at Peter, face still half covered by his arm, but doesn’t speak. 

Peter smiles sheepishly. 

“God, you’re beautiful.”

“Fuck you,” Elias croaks. His voice cracks and he swallows thickly. 

Peter caresses his face, wipes away a stray tear. Elias thinks of how gentle he is and chokes back a whimper, mind taking him back to that horrible memory. 

When Peter kisses him and starts rocking them together, Elias can’t help the moan that tears through his throat. It betrays the hurt and the pleasure, and Peter whispers encouraging words against his lips. 

“I can’t- I can’t, not like this.”

“Look at me.”

Another head shake. 

“ _ Ask  _ me.” 

Elias’ eyes blink open in utter shock. Peter hates being compelled. In fact, their only sacred agreement is that they won’t use their powers on one another. But here he is, granting Elias access into the safety of his mind, offering Elias his truth. 

Elias’ lips are trembling when he mumbles the question. 

“Did you kiss him?”

Peter grunts softly when the wave hits, but he’s honest. 

“No. Never did. It didn’t feel right.”

Elias lets out a shuddery breath that has his entire body convulsing. It’s part relief, part agony, part anger. He doesn’t have a name for it, not really. His hands close into fists and he squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Was there anybody else?”

“No. There’s just you.”

Every muscle in him tightens, bearing the tension of his myriad feelings. He could kill Peter right now. In fact, he wants to. Wants to punch and tear and rip his throat out, but he’s also  _ relieved _ . 

Elias knows it, then, that any other answer would have torn a hole through his chest.  _ No one. _ Suddenly, he releases, exhausted beyond reason. He takes a few shaky breaths, and realises that Peter is gently stroking his hair.

Their faces are close, and Elias can smell the remnants of chewing tobacco in Peter’s beard, the bitterness of beer in his damp breaths.

_ No one _ , he mutters, feeling like an idiot. A very relieved one. 

“No one,” Peter echoes. “No one, just you.”

Elias finally opens his eyes to see Peter scanning his face with affection. 

He almost can’t bear to look, but he takes in the wrinkles of time around Peter's eyes; the small scar on his chin where his beard grows unevenly; the deep, steely blue of his irises that betray how old and tired he is; the open, violent devotion with which he regards Elias. 

Elias wonders within himself when he had let this man get so close, and why he keeps beckoning him closer. 

The spot where Elias had hit him earlier with a bottle is now purplish red, and Elias touches it; carefully at first, then deliberate — presses down on it with a thumb and watches Peter wince, then smoothes it over with barely a brush of a fingertip. 

Peter nuzzles his hand, kisses his palm. It makes something already fragile finally crack within Elias, and he circles Peter’s neck, takes him into his arms, all of him, before he can think better of it. 

Peter groans and buries his nose into the crook of Elias’ neck, breathing in the scent of him. "Just you," Peter promises against his damp skin.

Elias feels lightheaded as he stares at the patterns that sunlight creates on the ceiling, seeping in through a slit between the curtains. He breathes him in, too. Peter is so large, so hungry. Elias feels as if he’s being devoured. Any more than this, and he might lose himself. 

The idea is preposterous. He’s nobody’s, he doesn’t serve. But if it’s Peter, he will beg.

“Come on- come on, come on,  _ please _ .” 

Peter fucks into him, too slow for how badly Elias needs it, but hard and deep enough that he can’t think of anything else. The way Peter moves inside and on top of him has his entire body rutting into Elias; it traps Elias’ cock between them and creates friction so good that Elias crosses both legs behind him and draws Peter even deeper. 

The slow drag of Peter's chest hair is rough and the way he is kissing him will give Elias beard burn, but Elias holds him tight and it's a wonder how he's still able to move. 

For the first time, Elias doesn’t think to  _ look _ . Of course, the thought crosses him, but doing so would mean choosing a kind of pleasure that’s more about himself than about the two of them. And this, whatever ritual they’re partaking in now, it’s meant to be together. 

Elias wants to be here — and he’s so close now. Somehow, he knows that Peter is the same, and he doesn’t need the Eye for it. 

When he finally comes, it’s hot and thick and breathless; his muscles spasm so intensely that he feels he’s going to black out. He only has half a mind that Peter is kissing his face and coaxing him through it, hips still pumping into him. 

Peter comes a moment later, and Elias doesn’t even think to berate him for letting it all inside. It feels right, feels like that’s where he’s meant to be. Peter pushes his cock into him a few more times after he’s done, and Elias whimpers at the sticky feeling, hands clutching Peter's buttocks and keeping him in until he goes soft.

Elias moans, open-mouthed, when Peter sucks on his lower lip, then shivers when he finally slips out, hot come dripping out and down Elias' arse. 

Elias feels used, exhausted, and strangely sated — but his eyes are dry and puffy from crying, and there are bruises everywhere on his body. 

“Are you alright?” Peter’s voice is barely above a whisper. It sounds hoarse, but Elias’ isn’t any better. 

“That is very debatable.” 

Peter huffs out a brief laugh, then leans in to kiss him. It’s slow and lazy, and sometimes Peter will wander off and mouth at Elias’ cheekbones, his eyelids, and the curve of his jaw. 

Elias can only sigh and wait for when Peter finds his lips again. The kiss is open, earnest, and Elias knows that he'll never kiss like this again: letting out soft little sounds as if it's his first time being touched, loved.

They spend the next few minutes in silence, but words aren’t needed. Elias knows that he has hurt this man, and is very much aware that he’s been hurt in return — nothing they say now can change that, and to be fair… He isn’t sure he would want that. Any other time, any other person, he would have taken revenge to the extreme, but with Peter… God, he has already forgiven him, hasn’t he? They are licking each other’s wounds. 

“Do you still want the divorce?” Peter asks softly, eyebrows knit tight. Elias pokes at them until the frown disappears. 

“Every damn day.” Elias rasps out. 

Peter takes his wrist and kisses his pulse point, bites softly into it, then twines their fingers. 

“But not today, no. Just-” Elias swallows, pushes the words out. “Just don’t do that again. Please.”

Peter nods, solemn. “I won’t. You too. Don’t play with my feelings anymore, Elias.” Peter’s eyes are pleading. “I know you think I don’t have them most of the time, but- They’re right here, let me tell you.”

Elias’ heart is a frail little thing in his chest, but oh, how fast can it beat. He nods, and Peter joins their foreheads, brushes a nose against his own. Next, he turns them around, gently peeling off the sweaty robes. His chest is pressed to Elias’ back and the weight of his arm is comforting around his middle. 

The soft pecks that Peter leaves on Elias' shoulder blades and nape feel both like worship and apology. They send shivers down his spine and soon, Elias drifts off. 

  
  


*

  
  


When he awakes the next morning, Elias is three hours late for work — but one couldn’t pay him to care. 

Somebody took care of his wounds, cleaned him up and even dressed him in his favourite pyjamas. The curtains are drawn shut and somehow the bedsheets have been changed into fresh ones.

_ Somebody _ comes into the room a moment later with a steaming cuppa and morsels of french bread from Elias’ favourite coffee shop down the street. 

“Sleep well?” 

Peter greets him with a gentle peck to the lips and Elias is too surprised to be snipey. When does try to speak, though, he finds that his voice is gone. 

Peter laughs and offers: “Tea?” Elias takes it. 

It’s green and perhaps a bit too strong, but it makes the fine hairs on his arms rise pleasantly when he takes the first sip and it warms his chest. 

Peter sits beside him and starts munching on some bread. Their shoulders touch and Peter, Elias finds, is very warm, too. 

Elias gingerly inches closer, trying to be nonchalant about it, but Peter seems to be in good enough spirits that he winds an arm around Elias' shoulders and plants a kiss on his hair. 

Elias hides his reddening face behind the cup, completely unused to this kind of behaviour. Isn't the Lonely supposed to be sap-proof? Then, he notices something at the foot of the bed. 

He gives Peter a confused look. Peter follows his gaze. 

"Oh, right. I thought you'd want to do this together."

Peter reaches over and grabs the divorce papers, then offers them to Elias. 

"No more divorces. I mean it. We are old, Elias, we can't keep doing this. We need some peace of mind."

Something warm and proud settles in Elias' chest, and he perks up with a cheeky smile. 

"Can't promise anything," he mouths.

Peter rolls his eyes. Fucking incorrigible, they say. 

Elias takes the other end of the papers and, together, they rip them apart. 

"There, all done," Peter says. "Now, if you really want to keep me close, I suggest going old school and getting yourself one of those- you know." 

Peter raises a hand and wiggles his ring finger. Elias sputters and chokes on his tea. Peter gives him little pats on the back. 

"There, there. Take your time."

Elias certainly will.

  
  
  


_ The end (or is it). _

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not even embarrassed to say I'm a complete goner for these two. If you've read this far, thank you! Let me know if I've missed any tags.  
> I'd love to know what you think, and if you tell me what your favourite bits were, I'll probably love you forever.  
> Come yell at me on tumblr @ kenanda! :)


End file.
